


Play it again, Max

by TheDarkPorg



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Because Someone Suggested There Needed To Be Fanfic of That, But That's Not Mentioned Except in the Title and Tags, Canto Bight, Connix in the Metal Bikini, Continuity Takes a Left at Crait, Do Not Assume The Author Endorses Anything, Max Rebo is Playing a Set in the Background, Multi, This is pure crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkPorg/pseuds/TheDarkPorg
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Play it again, Max

Canto Bight. Scum capital of the Galaxy.

The throng of silk and jewellery seems to ripple and recoil, the perfumed ugliness shrinking black from the frayed black cloak and scarred helmet of the striding figure who was once the Supreme Leader of the First Order.

Lord Ren makes a gesture with his fist, twisting the crude chain wrapped round his hand—a tug on the leash which binds the half-naked girl who follows him, making her stumble and quicken her place, as if drawing her closer will counteract the rejection of the shimmering crowd—or add a further gesture of confrontational offence to his aggressive movement through the room.

When Rey abandoned the Resistance to join him, she boasted she would become an empress. Now she looks like the slave she is. Confronted with the truth—that she has no natural connection to the Force, and that the power she wields is entirely borrowed from her Master—she has accepted her place, her existence as his creature, a mere extension of his will. The destruction of the First Order has only reinforced her servitude.

Beneath her spiked collar, Lord Ren's only remaining follower wears a tight black synthide wraparound across her chest, binder cuffs around her wrists, connected by a heavy chain, a sort of miniskirt constructed from an armoured belt and four rectangular nerfhide flaps, and a pair of platform boots that look like fetish wear.

Connix isn't sure she should be flattered or ashamed that she's the one on a gilded leash, chained beside the Hutt in bright blue silks and gilded slave bikini—a jewel-studded choker and matching bicep cuffs, a top that consists of nothing more than swags of bold fabric clipped to the shackles by short gold chains, half-a-dozen blue-and-yellow bangles stacked up on each of her wrists, and a waist chain with a tiny triangular silk pennon suspended at the front to protect her modesty. She's become used to the appreciative looks she gets, and the upright poise and simple, linear movements the costume has taught her, making her feel somehow both alert and languid. But she likes her long blue bantha-suede boots, flexible and comfortable, that always feel like the most substantial thing she's wearing—the nearest to real clothes.

She's not sure how she feels about the way the Third Star War ended two years earlier. The Resistance effectively disbanded after Crait, and then the First Order simply ran out of Star Destroyers and stormtroopers due to their own inept aggression. The Senate held elections, and reconvened on Coruscant. She finds it strange to think she used to know the new President quite well.

She's a little alarmed, though, when she realises that Ren and Rey are heading for the same high-stakes Wheel-and-Deal table she's seated at with her own master. She surreptitiously checks the reactions of the rest of the expensively-dressed group of players and companions around the table, then gives a sideways glance up at the Hutt whose couch she shares—a natural enough expression from a sex-pet to her owner, but the gesture—or rather, the distinctive way the movement makes her chain shake—is one of the coded signals that they use.

The Hutt just laughs—amused, or at least willing to act amused, until he figures out if Ren's a threat. An alien hand grips her bare shoulder. " _Chuba no bahn, myo boonta. Chuba no Publiko ateema_." Then the Hutt shifts attention to the new arrivals. " _H'chu apenkee, Kylo Ren_."

 _Do not worry, my pretty_ , Connix translates. _You are not with the Rebels now_. _And welcome to the table, Kylo Ren._

She's oddly grateful to the Hutt—after everything fell apart, she'd used her skill with comms, numbers and languages to work the tables on a couple of casino worlds, but when she was caught scamming a wheel on Vorzyd, she made the mistake of accepting an offer to work as a dealer for the house instead, and she was grateful to be rescued from that dubious form of employment when the Hutt took a liking for her.

She's not quite sure if the casino actually gave her to him as a gift, or if they just let her leave with her new protector. Since then, she's travelled as his companion, surreptitiously using her skills to shift the odds in his favour at gaming tables around the Galaxy. The Hutt expects her to play the role of slave in public, and she's flexible enough to show her gratitude in ways that border on affectionate.

She's glad he's not expected anything too intimate, but there are times she worries that he's just retaining her resale value.

She forces herself to focus on the new arrivals. In her new line of work, it's easy to get self-absorbed.

Without the usual rhythms of interplay around the table to engage her attention, her focus slips away. Ren's silence is intimidating, silencing everything around him, even thought.

She finds it hard to look at him in the way she normally studies other players. Distracting him would be even harder. But as her glance searches for something else to focus on, Rey blinks at her, perhaps in recognition.

"Deal me in," says Kylo Ren. Filtered through the vocoder of his helmet, the distorted words offer no hint of weakness. They demand the same attention as his silence.

"This is most irregular," complains the droid running the table. But someone from security will be watching on the holo, and they don't want a psychopathic ex-dictator getting his lightsaber out in the middle of their gaming floor. Connix hears the note in her earpiece that indicates a transmission on the casino's channel. She moves her hand beneath the table's edge, the agreed indication to show that something expected is going on.

She realises that she's slipped back into work mode. She checks the other players, no sign there of any change of plan, no telemetry on her contacts that would indicate a scam or even the sort of backup she provides her owner.

 _Owner?_ Yeah, she thought it. Does she mind? Not really. _Focus, girl_.

Ren's the skifter here, the unexpected change in the pattern of play. Or maybe Rey's his skifter, in some way. She's going to have to figure that part out. They have the Force—or Ren does, Rey's just borrowing off him; but Connix has her skill with numbers and patterns, her discreetly expensive commscan suite concealed in her skimpy costume, and a new career in gaming tables. She's getting very good at this.

She also feels surprisingly grateful that she has a choice of pretty much every plush couch on her Hutt's yacht to stretch out on, as well as showers and workout spaces designed for a whole troupe of exotic dancers. She doubts that Rey gets that sort of luxury aboard Ren's ship.


End file.
